


A Blueberry Bush, A Bisected Earthworm, A Toy Car From the ‘80s

by sunken_standard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, angst like whoa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 09:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11734143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: Well fuck, Janine thought, looking down at the pregnancy test.Just once would 'a been nice, ha. Wished she never would 'a saidthosewords. Wasn't even anything to write home about.





	A Blueberry Bush, A Bisected Earthworm, A Toy Car From the ‘80s

**Author's Note:**

> Angst. Lots of it. And the warning is there for a reason. Rating is mostly for themes; probably could get away with a T just fine, but yeah.
> 
> Beta'd and titled by madder_badder. Not brit-picked.

_Well fuck_ , Janine thought, looking down at the pregnancy test.

 

 _Just once would 'a been nice_ , ha. Wished she never would 'a said _those_ words. Wasn't even anything to write home about.

 

*

 

Sherlock swallowed hard, looking down at the text. He set his phone on the lab table and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth.

 

He'd only gone to apologize, spurred on by his newest second chance at life thanks to dear departed Jim; things had just happened and she'd made the offer and it was a moment of weakness.

 

"Are you okay?" Molly asked, coming to stand beside him.

 

He picked up his phone and handed it to her.

 

"Oh," she said, betrayal and anger flashing across her face before she schooled it into something bland, sympathetic. He would rather she slap him again.

 

"It wasn't supposed to happen," he said. It didn't help matters.

 

*

 

He took the train to Sussex to see her.

 

"What do you want?" he asked.

 

"Nothing," she said, and he could see it wasn't a lie. She'd made her money off him already, had a book deal for an expose on her former boss in the works, steady freelance work for a women's magazine, and a successful recipe and photography blog on the side. Her career was looking better than it had in the last ten years and it was flexible enough that a child wouldn't ruin it. She might even find a way to capitalize on it. Probably would, knowing her.

 

"Will you tell anyone I'm the father?"

 

She laughed. "Not on your life. That's all over with, Sherl. I don't want the kind a' trouble you bring."

 

It shouldn't hurt, but it did.

 

"Will you at least let me see the baby?"

 

She looked surprised, and that hurt too. How little they all thought of him.

 

"I'll think about it."

 

*

 

He got an email with the picture of the first scan three days after baby Watson was born. He couldn't tell John or Mary. Molly had been keeping her distance and he missed her so much it was a physical ache; he needed her friendship now more than ever. Wanted more than that for quite a while, too, but now there was no chance of it. She kept his secret, though, carried it inside her like the baby he'd never give her.

 

It was a bitter thought.

 

*

 

She'd never wanted kids, always thought pregnancy would be awful.

 

She loved it. She'd never been happier in her life. Would 'a been nice if it'd'a been an actual boyfriend got her up the pole, but she didn't need anybody.

 

She didn't hold it against him; actually, she kinda owed him, now.

 

She rang him and asked if he wanted to come along to the second scan so he could find out if he'd be having a daughter or a son.

 

*

 

He couldn't make it after all. He used a case as an excuse, but she thought he was scared, or maybe already lost interest.

 

Didn't really matter; if he wanted to see his daughter, she'd let him, and if he didn't, she'd never know the difference. She'd grow up safe and loved and wouldn't miss having a father until she was old enough to realize she didn't have one, and who knew what might happen by then?

 

She sent Sherlock a copy of the sonogram anyway.

 

*

 

"It's a girl," he said to Molly. She hadn't stopped him when he'd started coming round to her flat again, hadn't stopped him when he started sleeping beside her in her bed again.

 

She hummed in the dark. Then, "I can't have kids. At least, probably not. Uterine fibroids."

 

He didn't ask if there was anything that could be done, or if she even wanted children; it was clear that the answers were 'no' and 'yes' respectively.

 

"I'm sorry," he said, at a loss. It was trite, but it was also true.

 

"Aren't we all," she said before rolling over.

 

He lay there for a few moments feeling helpless; he honestly felt like he had nothing left to lose when he rolled onto his side and spooned up behind her, his arm around her waist.

 

She didn't stop him. She didn't stop him when he kissed her shoulder, her neck; she didn't stop him when he urged her to turn in his arms and they shared their first proper kiss.

 

*

 

Her Mam came over two weeks before she was due; Da could spare her from the shop but couldn't leave himself. He'd be there to meet his granddaughter once she was here, though, same with her brother.

 

Birth was nothing like she'd been expecting, but it wasn't a complete surprise, either. Afterwards, she didn't really remember a lot of it. She was tired and everything hurt and she probably wouldn't be able to go to the toilet for a few weeks without crying, but she had a daughter.

 

Perfect, of course, ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes, a shock of thick black hair with a bit of a curl to it, her eyes and (God help her) his mouth. Her baby. Violet Chanda Hawkins, after both her Grans, the one she grew up with and the one she'd never met.

 

*

 

Molly held his hand on the train, in the cab to the hospital. She insisted on waiting outside, said it wasn't right and she didn't belong there. There was nothing he could do to persuade her. He supposed it was asking too much of her, anyway. She'd been the one to pick out the presents, nothing garish or thematic or sentimental; a stuffed rabbit made of soft chenille, a hardbound collection of Beatrix Potter stories, an outfit for when the baby got a bit bigger. Asking her to see him with his child by another woman was probably a horrible thing to do in the first place.

 

He'd talked to his solicitor and there would be a bank account and a trust fund set up as soon as the baby had a name; Janine wouldn't ask for maintenance payments, but he'd make sure the baby was well looked-after financially should misfortune befall her.

 

Janine beamed at him, too happy and too proud of her baby to mask it or let anything else get in the way of it. She was radiant, he thought, and he was struck with the vague sense of loss for what could have been.

 

He rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands and arms; Janine patted the bed and he sat next to her as she handed over her daughter. His daughter. Their daughter.

 

"What's her name?" he asked softly.

 

"Violet," Janine said.

 

"Violet," he murmured, taking her in. He saw them both in her face, but she was neither; she was her own person. She was beautiful.

 

Her little rosebud mouth twisted in annoyance and her eyes cracked open.

 

"Hello, Violet Hawkins," he said softly. Her eyes focussed on him, or at least as much as they could focus for being less than a day old; he felt the bridge of his nose begin to tingle.

 

In that moment he was a father, something he was never meant to be, something he probably wouldn't be allowed to be after today.

 

"You are perfect," he said, somewhere between a whisper and a croak.

 

"She is, in't she?" Janine said, drawing her finger down the baby—Violet's arm, letting it be caught and rubbing her thumb over the tiny fist.

 

*

 

"I'd like to come and see her, if you let me," he said. She sent pictures, even a video once, but it wasn't enough.

 

"Saw it all on the news, Sherl. I don't... I don't think it's a good idea. Least, not right now. Get yourself together, get your act cleaned up again, maybe."

 

"I am clean. It's been a month. Please. Ever since Mary—"

 

"I told ya, I don't want the kind a' trouble you bring. Phone me again in another month and we'll see." She rang off.

 

He sighed, tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. At least he had Rosie in his life again; even if she wasn't his, he had someone to nurture and watch grow. Someone to remind him there had to be a point to it all, that there was a reason to try to make the world a better place.

 

*

 

"I love you," he whispered into the crown of Molly's head. He should have said it months ago. He should have realized it years ago.

 

"I know you do, I know," she said, nodding against his chest and squeezing him tighter.

 

Nothing much really changed; they found a kind of domestic rhythm that was a bit more comfortable than it had been before. John and Rosie came over for dinner often, Mrs. Hudson and even his brother sometimes. He met her family. She met his parents.

 

He'd never told them about Violet, couldn't bear to break their hearts like that. The only grandchild they'd ever have, and they couldn't even get to know her. Hardly seemed fair, but nothing ever was.

 

*

 

"Janine, there's something you should know," he began. It was a video call; he needed to do it face-to-face and this was the closest she would let him get. Molly hovered at the edge of the lounge, ready to take over if things got heated.

 

"Is it curable?" she asked. "Whatever ya got."

 

Of course she would jump to that conclusion.

 

"I'm not sick. I've recently found out that I have a sister and she's... a bit different. She has a mental illness and there's a strong possibility that there's a genetic component to it."

 

She didn't take the news well at first, disconnecting the call before he could explain much past 'era-defining genius' and 'dissocial personality disorder.'

 

He'd never forgive himself if he'd (however unknowingly) passed that curse onto his daughter.

 

*

 

Janine cooled off after a week and extended the invitation to Sussex; Molly went with him.

 

She raised an eyebrow when she noticed Molly's ring, but actually held her tongue. He supposed the day was already going to be tense and awkward enough.

 

Violet was six months old and dressed in the outfit he'd gifted her when she was born; he thought it was nice of Janine to do that. She was a chubby, happy baby, not shy at all. Just like her mother, though by all accounts he had been much the same.

 

He had the thought that motherhood definitely suited Janine as she showed Molly around the house (a thing he supposed women did); the baby on her hip was a natural extension of her body and she was completely relaxed, content. Molly looked profoundly uncomfortable and didn't say much.

 

Violet reached for him after they'd been there for a bit. He hesitated before holding out his arms for her, and only after Janine's look of tacit approval. Her weight was familiar and too-light; he was used to carrying Rosie, who had a full seven months and a good ten pounds on Violet. She smelled like baby shampoo and milk and infant, and there was some underlying note to the scent that pulled all kinds of instinctual impressions of emotion to the fore: _mine-protect-care_. He stifled the urge to hand her back to Janine immediately.

 

Molly saw it, though, of course she did; she did a good job of hiding the sadness in her eyes and laughed politely along with something Janine said.

 

The day wasn't an entirely pleasant one, as the reason for the visit wasn't pleasant. Molly used her doctor-voice to explain the potential problems Violet may face and the early warning signs; both he and Molly had been doing their research—he'd combed his family history and she'd consulted countless journals and asked a few trusted colleagues in various fields, framing it as gathering information to make an informed decision about starting a family with her fiancé. That lie was of her own construction; she still held a glimmer of hope that she could conceive, even if she never said as much.

 

Janine nodded along, but seemed unconcerned. It wasn't that any of it was going over her head or that she was in denial; she said she'd been taking each day as at it came and she'd keep doing that, _whatever will be will be_.

 

"You can... come 'round again sometime, if you want," Janine said before they left.

 

"Yes, I think I will," he replied, not knowing what else to say or how to feel about, really.

 

It was late when he and Molly got home; she cried alone in the shower because she didn't want him to see how much everything had affected her. He hated that he'd never been able to give a single woman the life she deserved—not his future wife, not the mother of his child, not his dearest friend, not his sister.

 

*

 

"Would you want to try?" he asked her a week after their visit to Sussex. He'd done quite a bit of soul-searching since then.

 

"It's not like we've been careful," Molly said, her finger worrying the tiny hole in his t-shirt.

 

"There are other things, fertility tracking and positions and dietary changes..." he offered. "Maybe there are treatment options for you that weren't available the last time you investigated it."

 

She was quiet for a moment, then, "Do you want a baby?"

 

He didn't know how to answer. He thought _she_ did, and _maybe_ he did; he wasn't opposed to the idea, at the very least, even with everything with Eurus.

 

"I don't know what I want. But I'll be happy no matter what happens as long as I have you." It was true, even if it sounded like a line.

 

"Probably better not to tempt fate." She sighed and didn't say anything else before falling asleep.

 

*

 

Life settled. He avoided big cases, sure-to-be-dangerous cases. He went to see his sister, he went to see his daughter. He was sure Mycroft knew, but he never said anything. He wanted to tell John, sometimes, but as time went on, he found he couldn't.

 

*

 

They invited her to the wedding. Violet, too. She thought about going alone; everything else aside, she did like 'em. They were friends, even, of a sort.

 

In the end, she declined.

 

She invited them to Violet's first birthday party. Family only, just her Mam and Da and brother and his brood. She'd never told anybody who Violet's father was, but her Mam probably knew. She'd seen him in the hospital, after all, and she was a clever woman. The rest'd figure it out, but nobody would make a scene because it would be Violet's day. Underhanded, but then she always was a bit.

 

In the end, they declined. Probably for the better.

 

They came the next weekend with a few tasteful presents, nothing lavish or any kind of keepsake-type thing; a few books and two outfits and tiny piece of wall art—pressed violets arranged under glass—from an Etsy seller. They had a plain cake, no candles.

 

It kind of broke her heart to see the both of 'em. She still had a few regrets when it came to Sherl and the what-could-have-been, even felt a bit of guilt over the thing with the papers. It was Molly that she hurt for, though. It was clear as day she felt like she was missing something, clear as day that she was trying to rationalize all that want and sadness away.

 

Maybe she was reading into it, but there might'a been a bit of fear there, too. Like they were expecting Violet to jump out of her chair and eat somebody's face off.

 

She'd be lyin' if she said she didn't lie awake at night thinking about it sometimes. But then she'd get up and look at Violet and she knew, _she knew_ , her baby wasn't like that. Whip-smart, but that was to be expected. Not the best with sharing toys at playgroup, but she wasn't going around tryin'a take anything from the other kids, just defending what was hers. She didn't hit, she didn't bite, she engaged with the world around her and made prolonged eye contact and did all the other things they said psychopaths _didn't_.

 

Anyway, Sherl wasn't a psychopath. An arsehole, maybe, but still a pretty good guy.

 

No point in worryin' herself sick over nothin'.

 

*

 

They got a dog, a Border Collie mix they named Arthur. It wasn't a baby, but it was something, another presence in the flat that they could focus their attention on instead of just each other.

 

It wasn't that their marriage was unhappy, far from it. He'd never known any kind of feeling of completeness, everything about him had always had the chaotic quality of a construction zone, but at least with Molly there was a sense of wholeness to him now. She wasn't his missing piece, but more like a key; she'd unlocked something inside him that let him fill the hole that had always been there and he was infinitely better for it.

 

Molly didn't mope or bemoan the fact that they would never have a child, she didn't fall into a deep depression or begin to hate herself for being an incomplete woman; nevertheless, he knew it still pained her sometimes.

 

Even so, it was a good life. It was their life.

 

*

 

And then it was all gone in a heartbeat. Molly had started being sick at odd times, missed a period, mood swings, dizziness—all the signs were there and they dared to hope.

 

What was growing inside her wasn't a baby. And there was no stopping it. Even the most aggressive treatments wouldn't give her more than six months.

 

He buried his wife two months after their third wedding anniversary.

 

Janine brought Violet to the funeral and he felt a flash of anger towards her for it; it was no place for a child and an irrational part of him felt like she was somehow gloating over it, either for having the thing Molly had never got to or relishing his loss.

 

He imagined Molly giving him one of her reproachful looks (he wasn't hallucinating her like John had Mary, but sometimes he saw her so clearly in his mind's eye it may as well have been a hallucination) and deflated, ashamed of himself for even thinking it. He was a mess.

 

*

 

"I know it's not the right time to be asking this," John began, licking his lips. He was helping pack away Molly's things, since she'd been the one to help him do it for his own wife; repaying in kind. "Janine's daughter."

 

Of course he'd noticed. He wasn't stupid, after all.

 

"Yes," was all he said.

 

John apparently needed explicit confirmation.

 

"She _is_ yours?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Did M—did, ah, Molly know?" He tried to be delicate, at least.

 

"Yes."

 

John nodded, said nothing else.

 

*

 

"Mummy asked about the girl, you know. I daresay she's forgotten it already, though. I don't think she wants it to be true. She did so love Molly," Mycroft said, looking at the space on the empty mantle where the wedding photo used to sit.

 

Sherlock had protested that photo; he hated himself in pictures and didn't want to have to see it every day. She'd said she wanted it there and it had been six months of flipping the frame face-down and her setting it back up until he'd just forgot one day and that had been that. Seemed so silly, now.

 

He grunted; he didn't have the energy to bite out a response.

 

"You'll be back to Baker Street tomorrow. Should I be worried about tonight?"

 

"No. I promised her never again and I intend to keep that promise." Not that it hadn't crossed his mind. Other things had, too; it had been so long since he used it would be very easy to miscalculate the dosage.

 

"Quite," Mycroft said, eyes boring into him like he could read his thoughts.

 

They sat together in heavy silence in the dimly-lit room for too long; finally Mycroft stood to leave.

 

"Mycroft—" he said suddenly, hesitating a moment before he continued. "Tell Eurus... Tell her I'm sorry, but I won't be able to see her for some time yet. I just... can't."

 

"Mm. Probably for the better. She does tend to get more agitated when she doesn't understand things, and I don't think—even with as far as she's come—this is something she'll be able to fathom. For what it's worth, I'll do my best to explain. She did seem to hate the idea of Molly less than other normal people, she may even surprise us," he said, tipping his head before seeing himself out.

 

*

 

He started to go every weekend to see Violet, even bought a car with some of the money from the flat just so he could take Arthur with him. Janine didn't seem to mind; it gave her a little bit of time to herself.

 

He thought she was actually glad for it; she hadn't found a boyfriend/ husband/ partner (not that she needed one), and she once commented that it was good for Violet to have a man in her life that wasn't under the age of ten or over the age of seventy. It had become apparent that Violet took after him in many ways, his acuity and propensity for emotional outbursts and some of the other quirks of his neurology that would have got her saddled with a diagnosis of autism if her IQ were closer to average. No psychopathy, though, thank God. He helped her learn to cope with the things that made her _her_ as best he could.

 

They hadn't said anything to Violet about the fact that he was her father; they decided that when she was old enough to ask for herself, she was old enough to have it explained. Until then, he was just Mummy's friend Sherlock.

 

He realized one day that he loved his daughter. He never thought he was allowed, as he wasn't supposed to be her father. He thought Molly would be proud of him, if she knew. She wouldn't be surprised, of course, she was the only person who'd ever seen the true depth of his capacity to love.

 

*

 

It was nice to have Sherl around. He was a changed man; broken. Never thought she'd see that (and really, she wished she didn't have to now, but nothin' was ever fair). Gone was the heartless bastard, replaced by a reserved, kind man that loved her daughter ( _his_ daughter) with a kind of steadiness and surety she hadn't thought him capable of.

 

Violet adored him, too; someone else to pay attention to her for a change and tell her how clever she was and sneak her sweets like it was some big secret, someone who understood her when other kids and a lot of adults didn't. It was only a matter of time til she started asking why she didn't have a dad, kind of a miracle she hadn't already, and it probably wouldn't be long after that that she'd put two and two together.

 

Sometimes when she saw the two of them hunkered down on the floor putting a puzzle together or him pushing Violet on the swing, she thought about asking him if he'd want to have another. Not even the natural way, but going the IVF route. Five or six years would be a bit of a gap, but at least Violet would have someone else.

 

Sometimes she wondered if he'd ever want to try to be more than friends. Not that he'd ever get over Molly, but once the pain dulled enough that he was ready to move forward, maybe then. It was a vague thought, and not one she let herself have very often. She still kept her eyes open for Mr. Right, went on a date every now and then, but no one had really struck her fancy yet.

 

*

 

Violet asked him about Molly one day; she remembered her from the times she'd come with him to visit, but she was confused about the funeral. He tried to get out of her what Janine had said, how she'd explained death; he didn't want to contradict her lest it start some stupid row and he was barred from seeing his daughter because of it. He hated the thought of lying to her if it was some nonsense about heaven and angels but, all things considered, that was hardly the worst lie he could tell.

 

"Mummy said there isn't a place people go when they die, they just—" she flared her fingers in a kind of 'poof' gesture that could be taken any number of ways "—and as long as you 'member them, they're always right here." She poked herself in the chest and gave it a little twist for emphasis.

 

He swallowed thickly. "Yes, that's exactly right," he said. "Will you promise me something?"

 

"Maybe," she said, and he couldn't help but smile a bit at that; she looked exactly like Janine when she said it, but there was just a hint of standoffishness that was all him in there, too.

 

"Will you remember Molly? And keep her here?" He tapped his finger on her sternum.

 

She nodded solemnly. "I liked her."

 

"She liked you, too," he said, straightening. He held out his hand and she reached up for it without hesitation; he led her out of the back garden through the gate and they walked down the street to the shop, where he bought her an ice lolly. He knew he was spoiling her dinner and Janine would probably be less than thrilled, but he really needed her to have the distraction because he didn't think he'd be able to hold himself together if she asked anything else.

 

*

 

He saw the estate agent's sign by chance; the council had a section of road closed for repairs and he'd had to take a detour. It was a detached cottage, late Victorian construction, three bedrooms and had a generous back garden that opened into a field in the back. High fences on either side to keep neighbours at bay.

 

Even without what was left of the money from the flat he could afford it. He wasn't getting any younger; he wasn't even forty-five yet, but his knees were shot and his vascular system was probably that of a man twenty years his senior. London didn't hold the same appeal it once did, the Work didn't hold the same appeal it once did. He could still take cases as he saw fit, he could still indulge Mycroft his favours. He might even be able to convince John that flatmates wouldn't be such a bad arrangement again and Rosie would be better off in the fresh air.

 

*

 

He gave Janine a set of keys. John was alright with it; he didn't know her very well, but he trusted her enough. Any residual hard feelings on Janine's part had slipped away years ago.

 

Rosie and Violet didn't get on at first; Rosie was just as brash and abrasive as John and Mary both could be at times and Violet was as shy around children her age as her name implied. All it took was getting them both together to help dig a hole to plant a blueberry bush, a bisected earthworm, and an unearthed toy car from the 1980s for them to become the best of friends.

 

Rosie was the boss, since she was older, even if she was smaller. Violet was tall for her age and a bit on the chubby side, but she was always smiling, taking Rosie's orders with good cheer. She had Janine's sparkle, even if the twist of her lips was Sherlock's.

 

He sat with John and Janine on the patio, the three of them watching the next Holmes (well, Hawkins) and Watson—and Arthur—on one of their adventures in the new Wendy house they'd finished putting together just the day before. They'd paint it once Rosie decided between purple or green; Janine said she'd make curtains and a bunting like she had for Violet's.

 

The breeze picked up and he caught the barest trace of a floral scent that reminded him of Molly's perfume; if he were prone to delusion he could pretend the caress of air was the same as the way she used to brush his hair from his forehead and slide her palm along the side of his face, he could pretend the tinkling of the wind chime was the same as the cadence of her laughter. He would never be able to fill the hole in his heart that she'd left, but at least he wasn't alone. She would be happy to know that.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Roughly inspired by this photoset/ moodboard (whatever you call them) on tumblr: http://lothiriel84.tumblr.com/post/114225490126/little-did-she-know-that-that-night-was-going-to


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